


Special Delivery

by lavvyan



Category: Garden Spells (Sarah Addison Allen), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Kid Fic, M/M, Magic Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has to give people the little things they need. It's a very awkward compulsion to have, especially when one lives in London, and his flat looks like several shops have exploded in it. He can use the supplies, though, and it's an interesting way to meet people, but then he starts running into the same bloke again and again. Coincidence? Or is fate trying to tell him something?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back in the Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover with Sarah Addison Allen's _Garden Spells,_ which is just the thing to read if you're in the mood for predictable, warm-hearted, slightly magical romance. As always with my WiPS, assume the caveat that this might not be going anywhere and I just need to get the bunny to stop chomping away at my brain for now.

When John was seven years old, his dad took them on a weekend trip to London. John packed and repacked and rerepacked his bag at least half a dozen times, running through the house in search of things he needed to add until his dad picked him up, swung him around and told him to restrict himself to the bare essentials, young man, and by that I don't mean your wellies.

"But it might rain!" John protested.

"But it might not!" his dad had laughed, and John had nodded because that made perfect sense.

So in the end, he ended up with the bare essentials: toothbrush and paste, two pairs of pants, one pair of trousers, one jumper, one t-shirt, two pairs of socks. A picture book, his _Connect Four_ travel set, paper and crayons. A strip of chewing gum, three onions, a ball of wool, a nail clipper, a white sock – size 7.5 – and the skull from his dad's study.

"Really, Johnny?" his mum asked with a frown, but his dad just laughed.

"He gets that from your side of the family," he said. John had never met his mum's side of the family 'cause they lived in America, but he knew that they were Waverleys and they were special. They _had_ to be special, 'cause John was special too.

"I know," his mum sighed. She always did when his dad said that, and his dad always kissed her as a punishment.

"I happen to like your side of the family," he said afterwards, like always, and John used his mum's distraction to stuff the skull into his bag and pull the zip closed. If she couldn't see it, maybe she'd forget about it. Anyway, he _had_ to take it. He couldn't not take it. Not taking it would itch and hurt and maybe even make him cry, and he hated crying. Mum didn't like him crying, either, so she always let him have the things he needed, even if they were hers and expensive. Harry sometimes took them away from him and laughed when he itched and squirmed, but Harry was mean and not special at all. John didn't like her.

He gave the onions to an old woman on the train, who put them away with an odd expression. People always looked at him oddly when he gave them things, but most of them said thank-you and anyway, John knew they needed whatever he gave them. He never knew for what, and they almost never needed them right away so he almost never found out, but something in him told him what to give away when and he never fought it anymore.

The chewing gum he handed to a woman at the train station. She smiled at him and put it in her pocket, and he smiled back 'cause she was pretty. He saw her again later, sitting on a bench with one heel of her fancy shoes half-torn off, just as she was trying to fix it with the gum. He waved at her, and her smile this time was even brighter. His dad chuckled and ruffled his hair and called him a lothario, and John beamed at the compliment, whatever it meant. Harry just rolled her eyes at him, but she always did so he ignored her.

A businessman on the tube got the sock, and the third receptionist at the hotel got the ball of wool on Saturday. He hugged John and said that it was just the right colour, and John enjoyed London a little bit more 'cause he could give even more people what they needed than he could at home. And London was so big and so full of things, and Dad handed John a whole twenty pounds to get what he thought might come in handy later, and John followed the itch and bought and bought until Mum got him a second bag to take back home.

On Sunday, they all went to the park before they went back home, and John took the skull along 'cause he would give it to someone that day. Mum put it in a plastic bag so people wouldn't stare as John carried it around, but he didn't have to carry it long because as soon as they got to the park, he saw the boy.

It was a small boy, much smaller than John, sitting on a yellow blanket with an older boy and a woman. He had dark curly hair and pale eyes and looked a bit like the fairy boy in one of John's picture books. He also looked deeply unhappy. John walked right over to him.

"Here," he said, holding out the bag with the skull, "for you."

The boy looked at the bag, then up at John. "Why?"

John shrugged and gave the best answer he could. "Because."

"That's an odd reason," the older boy said, and John bristled. He knew that giving people things they hadn't asked for was odd, he _knew_ it, and he'd heard it before, but something about this boy rubbed him the wrong way.

"It's _my_ reason," he said loftily. "And it's not for you anyway, so shut up."

The smaller boy smiled suddenly and grabbed the bag. His eyes went wide as he looked inside.

"Oh!"

"What is it?" the woman wanted to know.

"A skull!" The boy looked like a whole different person as he smiled and John stared, fascinated. The boy frowned again quickly, though. "It's _mine_!"

"I believe we've all learned not to try and take things from you after Mrs. Pauls had to get her second tetanus shot," the older boy said. He looked at John. "Thank-you for this… highly questionable gift."

The small boy stuck out his tongue and clutched the bag to his chest. John shrugged again. The small boy's scowl was fierce now, and his eyes were really very pale as he turned them on John. He didn't say anything, though.

"Uh. Welcome," John mumbled, suddenly uncomfortable. He'd just handed a skull to a _child_. Hopefully the boy wouldn't get nightmares. John coughed, and turned away.

He tried to ignore the feeling of pale eyes doing their best to drill a hole into the space between his shoulder blades through the force of their gaze as he walked back to his family. He desperately wanted to know what such a small boy would need a skull for, but he couldn't guess and didn't dare to ask. It didn't really matter, anyway, he told himself.

After all, he'd never see that boy again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enjoys a quiet day. Except not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! I really hadn't expected that! :D

John whistled as he pushed his bike through the door. The air was still bitingly cold, but the streets were dry and the sky overhead shone a brilliant blue, so John was abandoning the tube in favour of catching a little sunshine. His gift was quiet today, the only thing in his bag that didn't belong a small fold-away magnifying glass, which he wouldn't need to deliver until later that day. For once, he'd make it to work on time. He patted his jacket pocket once to make sure he had his keys, nodded, and then he pulled the door to 221 Baker Street closed behind him and took off.

His mother hadn't been too happy about his moving to London. In a city that full of people, she'd argued, he'd run himself ragged trying to give them all what they needed. But John wasn't just a Waverley, he was also his father's son, and his father could be one stubborn sod once he'd made up his mind. Fresh out of med school and with no particular idea what to do with his life – he'd wanted to join the army, but his father had asked what he was going to do if whoever was shooting at him _needed_ more ammunition and, well, John hadn't been too keen to find out – London had seemed like the place to go.

He'd been lucky. One of his Waverley aunts had much the same gift as he did, and she'd set up a trust fund to make the inevitable hoarding a little easier for him. He'd found a job as GP in a small surgery which paid just enough to rent his landlady's small basement flat and give her a little extra for letting him use the empty upstairs rooms as storage space for all his rubbish. He'd never be able to afford 221B on his own, but 221C was nice and cosy, once he'd got the mould off the walls. Besides, Mrs. Hudson was glad to have a doctor in the house, so they got along swell.

It took him barely ten minutes to get to the surgery, and he grinned as he saw Sarah just opening the door.

"Morning!" he called as he came to a stop.

"Good morning." She waited for him to lock up his bike and follow her inside. His cheeks prickled with remaining cold as they walked into the warmer rooms. "You're in a good mood today."

"Great weather, no taking off at four a.m. to hand someone a barf bag on the other side of town – I have a good feeling about this day." He let out a small, satisfied huff. "Tea?"

"Oh god, _please._ "

John laughed and went to put the kettle on in the small kitchen. Sarah hadn't been a morning person during the three months they'd been together, and she hadn't magically become one since. Neither had he, come to think of it, but something about this day simply had him energised.

His good mood lasted all through the morning and into lunch break, where they all shared leftover birthday cake Karen, the receptionist, had brought from her grandmother's.

"Seventeen guests," she said, waving a fork as she shook her head, "and she asked me to bring two cakes, and Margie to bring two, and Aunt Priyam to bring two, and then she went and ordered another five from the bakery. We couldn't even fit them all on the table!"

Sarah licked some chocolate frosting from her own fork. "I like your grandmother."

"Wise woman," John agreed. He didn't even know what kind of cake he'd had – something flaky and heavy and sweet – but it had been fantastic.

"Figures you'd be working a full shift for once when there's cake," Karen said with a wink, and they all grinned. John only took off early or came in late when the itch got too bad, but it still happened more frequently than he'd have liked. The others were great about it, though. They teased him, but they never gave him a hard time. Maybe it was because of the way he'd shown up at Karen's one day with a garment bag and a smile when her cat had shredded the dress she'd been going to wear to her grandfather's funeral. Maybe they were simply good people.

"Yup," John said, and decided to have a piece of the chocolate as well.

He made it through the rest of his shift unscathed by snot and assorted fluids. The sky was beginning to turn a pinkish purple by the time he left the surgery and he put on his gloves before he straddled his bike and put his weight into the pedals. His breath hung in the air like little clouds, and he left a stream of them in his wake like fading dots marking his path as he rode down the street. His gift had been tugging at him more firmly for the last hour, but he'd become very good at telling when to be in the right place. He still had a few minutes to spare; Brixton wasn't very far from Central London. He'd be there on time.

Of course, he'd had no idea that 'there' would turn out to be a crime scene, complete with yellow tape and flashing lights and officers milling about. How the hell was he supposed to hand something off at a bloody _crime scene_?

He was still holding on to his bike, trying to think of a way to approach the nearest policewoman in a way that wouldn't sound completely mental – 'I'm sorry, but do you know if anyone here needs a fold-away magnifying glass? Mind if I check?' – when someone strode out the door of the taped-off building. He was a tall man, pale and elegant, with a face that looked as if all the rain clouds that had been missing from London's sky that day had gathered there to form a small thunderstorm.

"– don't know how you expect me to do your work for you if you won't let me examine the scene in detail," he was complaining as he strode towards where John was standing, beyond the yellow tape.

"I can order him out of the room, Sherlock, but I can't order him to hand over his equipment." Another, older, man was hurrying after this Sherlock person, frustration radiating off him. "Come, now, there must be something you can give me."

"Idle speculation, _useless_! I need data, not hearsay!" 'Sherlock' ducked under the tape. The other man still followed.

"Look, just wait a minute, alright? I'll find someone who has a –"

"Uh, excuse me." John coughed as they both turned to stare at him, but his hand didn't waver as he held out the little fold-away magnifying glass. "I believe you need one of these?"

'Sherlock' looked him up and down, pale-eyed gaze flicking across John as if his life's history was printed on the lapels of his jacket, or maybe the cuffs of his jeans. He scoffed, plucked the magnifying glass from John's hand, unfolded it, stared at him again. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to the house.

"Who the hell are you?" the older man – policeman, had to be, even if he wasn't in uniform – demanded.

"Just passing through," John said weakly. That look… he'd been dissected, categorised and dismissed within the space of a few seconds, or at least that was what it felt like. He'd never been a pushover, but he felt off-balance nonetheless. "Trying to help."

The man looked as if he was going to say something else, but a commotion just inside the house made him wince and turn away.

"Oi, Sherlock, don't mess up my crime scene!" he shouted, giving John a last glance before he jogged over to the sudden sounds of arguing.

John clutched at the handles of his bike and let out a long breath. With the policewoman watching him suspiciously, he got back on and pushed away from the scene.

He was used to people reacting oddly to his little – and sometimes not so little – gifts, but no one had ever looked at him like that.

He hoped that no one ever would again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a busy day ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, sorry.

"No, look, I can come in, I'll just be late," John said with a look at his watch, grimacing as he added, "and leaving early. God, I'm so sorry."

Barely four days after Karen's dig about his working hours, and the damn Waverley itch had caught him worse than ever. He stared at the small mountain of things he'd pulled from the boxes that were cluttering up 221B: tennis shoes, a plastic mug, a small broach in the shape of a butterfly, teabags, a battered violin case, five red rubber bands, a kitchen timer, a riding crop, the London A-Z. He dragged a hand over his face; how the hell was he supposed to deliver all of these in one day? This was exactly what his mother always worried about.

"John," Karen said kindly, "you're no use to us all jumpy. I'll call in Ayed, he's been asking about another shift this week. Take care of your…" he could almost see her waving her hand around, "… thing, and we'll see you back on Monday. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, you hear?"

"I can bring cake," John offered with a relieved grin. He could have managed three hours at work, but the days was going to be so much easier if he could take the time to properly plan his route.

Karen laughed. "Good god, no. Grandma's next birthday will be too early for more cake."

They exchanged a few more words – Mrs. Won was coming in today and only John understood the ever-shifting ritual that was involved in getting her to have someone look at her knee – and then John started in on the huge production that was gifting random people with random trinkets.

First, the gifts had to be sorted. What would he need to hand over first? What was small enough to fit into a bag, what had to be carried extra? The London A-Z was going last, which was good; small items going last was always good. The violin case went smack in the middle, though, and he had no idea how he was going to take a riding crop on his bike without looking like a barmy git. The five rubber bands turned out to be three-and-two rubber bands, which made him pull his hair in frustration. You could get a hundred of the bloody things for less than a pound; how could there be two people needing them on the same day?

Then there was the matter of mapping his drop-off points as well as he could with the intended recipients moving through their lives without anticipating him. Could he manage the whole spree in one round trip or would he have to come back? Could he skip a gift for later or hand something off early to avoid criss-crossing his own route? Were the recipients close enough for him to take his bike or would he need to resort to public transport, or a combination of the two?

As efficient as John had become over the years, the planning still took him almost an hour. By then, the itch to hand over that first gift – plastic mug, Lambeth, a hop and a skip, really – had turned almost painful. John grabbed his bag, satisfied that he could return for the violin case and even take the time for a quick lunch, and took off.

The plastic mug went to a young woman who was one step from spilling her coffee to go all over herself. The first two rubber bands he handed over to a cab driver, the teabags to a woman walking her miniature poodle, and the butterfly broach to a middle-aged cashier at Lloyds who stared at John as if he might pull out a rainbow flag next and strut flamboyantly through the foyer. John just shrugged. He'd have no trouble waving the rainbow flag; he was bi, after all, and saw no point in hiding it when his Waverley heritage was what truly made him different, but strutting wasn't really his style.

And yet, sometimes he couldn't get around drawing attention to himself, whether or not he wanted to.

He'd taped the riding crop to the bike's frame, hoping that no one would look too closely, but every hope for passing unnoticed faded when he pulled up in front of St. Barts and realised that he wouldn't just have to hand it off, he'd have to _go inside_ to do it.

He sighed, pulled out his phone, and called Mike.

"What's it today?" Mike Stamford, former schoolmate and sometimes-beneficiary of John's gift, asked cheerfully. "The labs? R & D? Accounting?" He grinned. "Are you looking for a paediatrician with a dirty secret?"

Mike was one of those people who hated their life and still managed to be amused by it. He was John's man on the inside of St. Barts and had a sardonic streak a mile wide. Nothing brightened his day like seeing John try to explain to some harried lab technician why he was handing her a shovel.

"The morgue," John said, clutching the crop as if he could make it and himself disappear. He felt like an idiot. Worse, he was sure that this would be one of those instances where an enraged or embarrassed someone would throw something in his face. Possibly a riding crop.

"The morgue?" Mike raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think Dr. Hooper had it in… _ohhh._ "

Mike's face lit up like a thousand-Watt light bulb. John watched him warily.

"What?"

"I know _exactly_ where you're going," Mike said, positively bouncing with glee. "This is going to be great!"

"Is it." Somehow, John didn't think so.

"Absolutely. Come on." And with that, Mike led the way into the busy halls of St. Barts, John following as he wondered what, exactly, he was getting himself into this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing, and I'm so, so sorry for the insanely long wait. On the upside, I think I know where this is going now.

John felt more than a bit silly walking through the corridors of St. Barts trying to look nonchalant while carrying a riding crop, but Mike radiated such a gleeful aura of _all is well, nothing to see here_ that few people spared him a second glance. Those who did very obviously decided not to ask, though John thought he recognised one or two of them from his earlier visits.

The morgue was cold as always, quiet except for the electric hum of the refrigerator units lining one wall. John didn't remember those. He didn't remember the lights being this bright, either, or the stainless steel tables looking quite so… efficient.

"Bit different from my day," he said. God, it had been… eight years already, had it? Mike chuckled.

"Isn't everything? Just take the internet." He glanced at the ceiling. "I'm still waiting for them to put web cams in here. The age of information."

John hummed. The dead woman on one of the tables at least looked familiar, in the way that corpses did once you'd taken a few apart. A man was leaning over the body, head tilted as he examined something on the neck, and he too looked familiar. It wasn't until he pulled a small fold-away magnifying glass from his pocket that John realised this was the bloke from the other day. The one from the crime scene.

The unsettling one.

"If you don't need anything," the man – John couldn't quite remember his name – said, "I suggest you go away."

"Actually, we're here for you." Mike smiled as the man straightened and shot them a dubious look. "Sherlock Holmes," Mike added by way of introduction, then he pointed at John, smiling brightly. "This is-"

"Waverley or Compton?" Holmes interrupted.

John stiffened and looked at Mike. Mike shrugged, his smile turning into a grin. "I didn't tell him anything."

"Come now, your family line must be one or the other," Holmes said. He seemed almost bored. "Which is it?"

"Waverley," John said slowly. His hand clenched around the riding crop. "How did you-"

"Then that must be for me." Holmes turned back to the corpse, holding out a hand. "Perfect timing, thank you, now go away."

John pressed his lips together and stared at Holmes. Tall, elegantly dressed, good-looking if you liked the type… and arrogant right down to the bones. He sniffed.

"Right," he muttered. "I don't have time for this."

He took the few steps forward and slapped the riding crop into Holmes's upturned palm with perhaps a little more zing than was strictly necessary. To his credit, Holmes didn't flinch. John pursed his lips and nodded. He was a grown man. He could admit when someone else scored a point.

Still, saying goodbye would be a waste of manners. He was about to turn back to Mike when Holmes suddenly straightened, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.

" _Oh,_ " Holmes breathed, and John took an involuntary step back as the man spun around to face him.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

Bit late for introductions. John squared his shoulders. "John Watson."

"Tell me, Doctor Watson," Holmes pointed at him with the riding crop, an expression of intense concentration on his face, as if John's answer was all that mattered to him, "did you recently give someone a hairpin?"

"Yes, of course," John said automatically, frowning as he tried to follow the rapid turns of this conversation. He handed out hairpins all the time. They were like rubber bands and buttons; small, boring, and essential. "I'm sorry, how do you know I'm a doctor?"

Holmes hummed, seemed to consider something, and then he smiled, the antagonism dropping off him like a well-worn coat.

"Your hands," he said, "soft, but the skin around the nails is slightly inflamed. You wash your hands frequently, obviously with the kind of soap that's bought in bulk, likely using additional disinfectant. You know Mike Stamford, who is notorious for keeping up with his old friends from med school and of course, when you came in you said 'a bit different from my day.' You've been here before, long enough ago to miss the more recent renovations, but not so long as to feel discomfort in the presence of a corpse. All of this implies medical training and at least some current occupation in the profession, although given the rather time-consuming nature of your gift I'd assume locum work rather than a more permanent position. Your bike the other day was of a reasonably decent quality, though, so you're obviously not lacking for money – trust fund?"

John was aware that his mouth had dropped open. He closed it, blinked, and opened it again. "And how did you know I was a Waverley?"

Holmes waved his hand. "Easy. So far, you have handed me a magnifying glass and a riding crop, both just when I needed them. Once might be a coincidence, but twice?" He tutted. "You obviously have what Allenberg's Atlas of the Gifted calls 'the gift of giving.' There are two known family lines who frequently carry that gift: Waverley and Compton." He studied John and smirked. "I suppose you might have been a Lehmenstein-Wallraff, but frankly, you don't have the nose.

"And now excuse me, gentlemen." Holmes let the riding crop snap through the air. "I have a date with a pig. Afternoon," he called over his shoulder as he strode through the door and let it fall shut behind him.

John stared at Mike, stunned. He felt like he'd just been caught-up in a particularly nicely-dressed whirlwind and been left reeling.

"Yeah, he's always like that. First time I've heard him explain something, though." Mike waggled his eyebrows. "Always knew you were special."

"Oh, shut up," John muttered. Mike laughed.

Delivering the rest of his trinkets seemed oddly anticlimactic after that. The tennis shoes went to a young woman just outside Barbican tube station whose feet were at least two sizes too small. John shook his head. His gift was usually reliable down to the half-size, but there was no use wondering. In most cases, he'd never know what people did with the things he was handing them.

Maybe Holmes would be able to tell with a glance. Maybe he was gifted as well; the gift of knowledge.

John snorted. If anything, that man had the gift of being an absolute tosser. That smile, though… John had to admit that smile had been pretty. There was no other word for the way Holmes's face had lit up and transformed from something coldly attractive into something… well, pretty.

And he had absolutely no business pondering a man he'd never see again. John shook his head at himself and went on to deliver the remaining stash of nonsense.

His next stop took him to South Bank, where he handed over the other three rubber bands to an elderly gentleman outside Southbank Centre's wagamama. He had time to grab a bite there himself before it was off to Nine Elms and a gaggle of small children just pouring out of what had to be a primary school. John gave the kitchen timer to a ten-year-old girl, who squeaked and immediately ran off to show it to her friends. At least now he knew why he'd chosen a pink one, he thought with a smile.

After that, he had a bit over an hour to get to Gunnersbury Park and the street musician who was to receive the violin case. John sighed as he waved away the young man's thanks and turned his bike around toward Kensington. He was getting tired, but he still had three hours to kill until he could drop off the London A-Z and call it a day. If he went home now, it'd be torture to get up and out again. He'd have to occupy himself in some other way.

John checked his wallet. Thirty-five quid. He hummed.

"Alright, but only small stuff," he told the hoarding side of his gift. Then he went trinket hunting.

Stuffed full of oddities as 221B already was, there was always room for more. Toothpicks. Dried apple slices. A cap with the Union Jack printed over it. A recharge cable for the iPod. John bought whatever struck him as something he would need eventually, aware that some of the things he bought might collect dust for years before he pulled them out and handed them over to some unsuspecting recipient. Hopefully not the apple slices, but he never knew. His gift had yet to pay attention to best-before dates.

Darkness was falling by the time he was done. His gift was tugging at him gently, a reminder that he still had a delivery to make, and soon. John was more than ready for a hot shower and a quiet evening in front of the telly, so he stepped on the pedal with a little more enthusiasm than he'd been able to muster a few hours ago.

Montague Street was brightly lit when he arrived. John tried to figure out which of the identical doors in a row of identical buildings was his destination, but his gift seemed uncertain. If John didn't know better, he'd say that now the intended recipient of the London A-Z was… himself?

Someone cleared his throat right behind John. John nearly dropped the book as he jerked around.

And stared.

"Doctor John Watson," Sherlock Holmes said with a self-satisfied smirk. "Just the man I was hoping to see."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas / Happy Tuesday!

"You again," John said without quite meaning to. He did have a few regulars; people his gift seemed to latch onto and not let go. Mike was one of those. This, though? This was getting ridiculous. 

"Your observational skills are astounding," Holmes said dryly. 

John shrugged. He liked to think of himself as rather observant, actually; years of trying to figure out what the recipients were going to do with his gifts had taught him a thing or two. He'd be the first to admit his skills were nowhere near Holmes's level, though. 

"But they're probably not what you wanted to see me for," he said. "So what do you want? Are you going to pick me apart again?"

"Do you want me to?" Holmes asked. He sounded almost flirtatious.

John shouldn't. Holmes's earlier performance in the morgue had rattled him, badly. There was no indication that Holmes was anything but an arrogant sod. But something about that string of facts, about the way Holmes had taken a handful of innocuous details and somehow spun them into John's _life_ , was intriguing. And that smile...

Curiosity had always been John's weak spot. 

He gestured at himself. "Have at it then. Can't imagine there's much left to tell."

Holmes frowned, like that wasn't the answer he'd been expecting at all, but he let his gaze wander quickly across John's body before tilting his head to do the same to John's bike. 

John held absolutely still. 

"You've been delivering your... things... all day," Holmes said. "Your jacket is still buttoned up exactly the same as it was earlier; you did it unevenly, by the way."

John looked down to see that, yes, Holmes was right. John had been in such a hurry to get that plastic mug delivered he'd paired the first button with the second hole. Rats. 

"You've been to South Bank; there's an OXO receipt sticking to your tyre. It was after you were at Barts but before you went to Gunnersbury Park. The dirt is quite distinctive. You had several hours to spare so you went shopping. Your backpack is full but it crinkles when you move, so trinkets, not groceries. Still in their individual plastic bags; you didn't bring them from home. You're here to deliver a tourist guide," he nodded at the London A-Z in John's hand, "so you're looking for a foreigner, someone from out of town at the very least. I imagine your gift will point the way to the intended recipient."

John felt his mouth drop open, but Holmes wasn't done.

"One of your co-workers has a cat, long fur, white. Some of the hairs are stuck to your jacket in a way that indicates they have been there for some time, but not enough for the pet to be your own or someone you live with. As a matter of fact, you don't live with anyone but your landlady. Your trousers have been mended by hand but that stitch isn't commonly taught any more, so: elderly woman, but neither a mother nor a girlfriend would have let you wear a shirt that thin," he pointed at John's collar, "if you were going to be biking across town all day. So you see," he finished with a smirk, "there's always something left to tell." 

John closed his mouth. Opened it again. Licked his lips. 

"That," he said slowly, because credit where credit was due, "was extraordinary."

Again, it didn't seem to be the answer Holmes was anticipating. He blinked at John, apparently thrown, before a small, pleased smile tugged at his lips. 

"You think so?" he asked, sounding almost shy now. 

"Of course I do," John said, because how could anyone not? Even if Holmes's skills were a gift, they were still amazing. 

Holmes stared at him, possibly looking for any signs that John was pulling his leg. Well, let him look; John was being absolutely sincere. Holmes seemed to realise as much. He tilted his head, studying John like John was some exotic animal never before encountered in the wilds of Bloomsbury. 

"Did I get anything wrong?" Holmes asked abruptly.

John blinked. "Pardon?"

"There's usually some detail that doesn't quite fit," Holmes said. John would bet he didn't often admit to that part. 

Instead of answering, John just handed him the book.

Holmes took it with the air of someone handling explosives. 

"It's for me," he said slowly. His eyes widened. "It's for _me_!"

He jabbed a hand into one pocket of his dramatically elegant coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper which he shoved at John. 

"Unfold this," he said. "Read me the numbers. They're in pairs, read me the pairs."

Confused, John unfolded the paper he'd been handed. It was a print-out of a photograph, showing a wall with some brightly yellow graffiti sprayed on. Numbers had been scribbled across it in black pen. John squinted.

"Are those Chinese characters?" he asked. 

Holmes brandished the book with a grin that bordered on maniacal. "It's a code. You've just handed me the key. The numbers, now."

John read the numbers while Holmes leafed back and forth through the London A-Z. The man's excitement was contagious; John was almost breathless by the time he read out the last pair. 

"Friday!" Holmes said and snapped the book shut. "It's tonight!"

Pieced together, the message read: _Private Room Phoenix Palace Glentworth Seven Friday._

"What, it's a dinner invitation?" John asked incredulously. "I know that place, it's just around the corner from my flat."

Impossible as it sounded, Holmes's grin seemed to widen even further. 

"Doctor Watson," he said with a flourish, "may I invite you to dinner?"

John gaped at him. 

"Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock," Holmes said with a wave of his hand.

"Sherlock." John paused and cleared his throat. "Are you... flirting with me?"

Holmes... Sherlock... tilted his head. "Do you want me to be?"

John opened his mouth to say no, and then paused. Holmes... _Sherlock_... was arrogant and abrasive, yes, but John didn't think that was all there was to him. He should just let it go; someone who worked with the police, used riding crops on pigs and deciphered encrypted dinner invitations left on walls clearly didn't lead the quiet life John was used to. 

Then again, was that so bad?

"I'm not sure," John finally said honestly. 

Again that puzzled look, like Sherlock was trying to peer right into John's hidden depths. Which, as far as John knew, there weren't any. Sherlock would probably lose interest as soon as he realised that. All John would get out of this was a free dinner and maybe another regular for his gift. 

And yet... 

"Want to find out?" Sherlock asked with an odd little smile. 

"Oh hell, yes," John said. He'd regret this, he knew. 

He didn't care.

An hour later, he'd gotten Sherlock to explain what the hell a 'consulting detective' was and that Sherlock's observational skills weren't a gift as much as they were training. He demonstrated said training by pointing out the group of what looked like Chinese business people who were just entering one of the private rooms and calmly informing John that those were, in fact, high-ranking members of the Chinese Mafia aiming to renegotiate their territory and settle some smuggling disputes. 

Ten seconds after that, as John was still gaping at him, their waiter pulled a gun on them.

"What the-" John began, but the waiter just shoved the gun – badly covered by the tray he was carrying – a little more emphatically into John's direction. 

"No talking!" he snapped. "Stand up! Go to the kitchen! Go!"

Well, bollocks. 

John stood, careful to keep his hands in view. Someone who was crazy enough to pull a gun in a restaurant full of people probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot. As he and Sherlock were walking slowly between the tables towards the kitchen, John found himself wishing he'd joined the army after all. At least he'd know how to disarm someone.

If he survived this, maybe he'd finally take up Moran on those self-defence lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to veer a bit into OOC territory after this one, though I promise it's for reasons of PLOT. We'll get back on track with chapter 9 (which will be posted NO LATER THAN 2015 OMG I'M SORRY.)
> 
> Also! If you have a qwertee account, would you please consider voting for [this design](http://www.qwertee.com/product/clues/)? I wants it. Thank you!


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